


don't let me break this, let me hold it lightly

by Wanderingchronicle



Series: no choir [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: As in a literal physical hurt, Assumed Unrequited Love, Big awful crushes, But mostly fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Purring, back massages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 02:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15232902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingchronicle/pseuds/Wanderingchronicle
Summary: And, as if the universe was conspiring to cause him more indignity, just as he managed to drop another glob of ointment on the floor, the door clicked open and Caleb Widogast sidled into the room.--Molly pulls a muscle. Caleb takes care of him.





	don't let me break this, let me hold it lightly

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you to the Widomauk discord for encouragement, and to everyone who has left lovely comments on the previous installments of this series.
> 
> You don't need to have read the rest of No Choir for this exactly but this fic does refer to previous events in the series. :D

_"Don't let me break this,_  
Let me hold it lightly  
Give me arms to pray with  
Instead of ones that hold too tightly"

\-- florence and the machine, "100 years"

Adventuring life, Mollymauk thought dourly, wasn’t without its indignities.

First and foremost of those indignities was that during an altercation with some of the more unsavoury elements of the tiny town they’d stopped off in during their pursuit of their missing friends, he’d overstretched. Several hours later, his shoulders were a locked-up mass of pain, aching underneath his coat.

In theory, of course, this wasn’t a problem he couldn’t deal with. He’d pulled muscles before, and he had a pot of ointment in his pack for precisely the purpose of rubbing into sore muscles, replacing pain with a warm tingling.

The problem was, he couldn’t reach.

Any other day, he could have managed the stretch, but now whenever he tried to bend back that far his nerves shrieked at him, and despite ten minutes of his best efforts all he’d accomplished was getting ointment on his lower back several inches from where it needed to be, as well as splattered on the bedspread and the floor.

And, as if the universe was conspiring to cause him more indignity, just as he managed to drop another glob of ointment on the floor, the door clicked open and Caleb Widogast sidled into the room.

He took a moment to take in the scene -- Mollymauk, an open jar of pungent-smelling ointment, and ointment smeared everywhere except for Molly’s upper back. “Hello, come in,” Molly says breezily, arm still curled behind him in a vain attempt to slop the ointment onto his shoulder blades.

There are worse things than a good-looking teammate walking in on him making a desperately unsexy mess of himself, but at that moment Mollymauk found himself earnestly wishing that the earth would swallow him.

“Do you need some help,” Caleb says, somehow making the question into a statement.

This was absolutely not how he had pictured this situation going. Mollymauk rearranges his features into a roguish grin, valiantly ignoring both his screaming back and the anxious twitching of his tail behind him. If the Moonweaver is merciful, Caleb won’t notice. “I wouldn’t mind some assistance,” he says, “I can’t quite reach…”

Caleb crosses the room and picks up the jar, raising it to his nose and taking a sniff. There’s a pause, and then he snorts.

“What’s funny?” Mollymauk asks, feeling more than a little aggrieved. Caleb looks at him over the rim of the jar, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. There’s something like genuine fondness in his eyes, and it makes Molly’s heart seize a little in his chest.

Caleb puts the jar down on the nightstand, shaking his head. “Somehow, every remedy I have come across for muscle pain smells the same, despite coming from far flung corners of the Empire,” he says, unwinding the bandages from his hands.

Molly eyes his hands for a curious moment. Caleb has nice hands, square palmed with a callus from holding a pen. There’s dirt under his fingernails, and a white scar across his left palm. They suit him, somehow.

“Where’s the injury?” Caleb asks, eyeing up Molly’s bare back. Molly points to the space between his shoulder blades, wincing.

There’s a moment where Molly stares at the wall, trying to quell the fuschia flush on his cheeks and still the anxious twitching of his tail. Then Caleb’s fingers pick up a glob of ointment that had landed further down his back and he _jolts._

Behind him, he hears Caleb start. “I’m sorry, I should have warned you,” Caleb says, “would you like me to stop?”

“No, it’s fine,” Molly manages, suppressing a full-body shudder, “I just wasn’t expecting that. Do go on.”

A few moments later, a hand smears something cold and sticky between his shoulder blades. Caleb’s touch is careful and clinical, his hands working the ointment into his upper back.

It feels good, good enough that Molly can’t contain the low sigh of relief that escapes his lips. It’s possible that he’s done this before, but it’s also possible that Molly’s back is so fucked that any relief feels heavenly. There’s also something guilty and good about Caleb’s careful ministrations, his slow breathing and the cool pressure of his hands.

One of Caleb’s hands shifts, the heel of his hand rubbing slow circles over the aching column of his spine. It feels amazing, like the knot in his back is slowly working loose.  Molly feels rather than sees his tail thud to a stop against the bedspread, end curling contentedly.

Caleb must notice, because he stops. “Are you alright?” he asks, clearly nervous. His hands leave Molly’s shoulders entirely, and he resists the urge to lean back and chase the touch. Beside him, his tail starts to twitch again as he no longer has Caleb’s touch to distract him.

Molly tried to turn to face him and winces when pain shoots up his neck into his skull. “Yes, the twitching was...not a good thing. It’s pain, or worry, or stress.”

“Ah,” Caleb says, “ja, like Frumpkin, but it’s not all the same. I don’t want to hurt you.”

 _You could never_ , Molly thinks, and does not say. Caleb’s hands return, smearing more ointment over the tops of his shoulders and up the back of his neck. There’s a delightful tingle across his skin that is half to do with the ointment and more to do with Caleb taking such care with him, working into his bare skin with the same methodical precision Caleb seems to do everything.

He wants more, Caleb’s hands tracing down his back or following the path of the tattoos on his arms, fingers curling in his hair or resting flat on his chest. He wants Caleb to touch him like a lover would, hands resting on Molly’s waist and face turned up for a kiss. But it’s more than Caleb would ever give him, and he has to guiltily clutch the sensation of Caleb holding him a few nights ago, of his hand on his cheek, of the spreading burn as Caleb tends to his shrieking muscles.

Caleb’s thumbs move up past his hairline, rubbing gentle circles at the base of his skull. His fingertips settle along Molly’s neck, an index finger resting along the curve of his jaw, and it’s so tender and so careful that he wants to fold the memory away and stash it somewhere secret and safe, so it can’t be taken from him. A purr rises in his chest, and he couldn’t stop it if he’d wanted to.

He’s too far gone to care about Caleb knowing how much he’s enjoying this. He tilts his head back into Caleb’s hands, lips parted in a soft sigh of pleasure. There’s something impossibly lovely about the pressure of Caleb’s thumbs at the base of his skull and the pads of his fingers grazing Molly’s neck. The way he’s tilting his head back leaves his throat fully exposed, torso open and unprotected with his hands curled in the bedcovers. He probably looks more than a little obscene, and he can’t bring himself to care.

The pain has largely receded, and although Molly is still sore it’s almost pleasantly so. When Caleb’s hands finally leave his shoulders, he pitches forward onto the covers almost immediately, tail curling happily to drape over the side of the bed.

“Oh,” Molly breathes, “that’s so much better.”

He hears Caleb shift, wiping his still-sticky hands on his trousers. He props himself up on his elbows, looking at the wizard askance.

“Thank you,” he says, putting on the most charming and carefree smile he can muster, “you’re a treasure.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Caleb’s eyes skitter sideways, his shoulders tensing up. “Nein,” he says quietly, his face remote, “it was nothing.”

Molly stares at him openly for a few moments. “I don’t think it’s nothing,” he murmurs.

Caleb gives him a guarded look, picking up the bandages from the nightstand and stuffing them in his pockets. “You can think that,” he says carefully, a faint flush colouring his cheeks.

Impulsively, Molly sits up and reaches out for Caleb’s hands, pausing just before he makes contact to give Caleb time to withdraw. He doesn’t, so Molly carefully takes one of Caleb’s hands with both of his.

“You can think it’s nothing, but the fact remains that I am no longer in physical agony,” he says earnestly, “and I think that’s something I’m allowed to thank you for your part in.”

A smile tugs at the corners of Caleb’s mouth, and Molly knows he’s won. “Ja, okay,” he murmurs, “you are welcome, Mollymauk.”

Molly grins up at him, presses his lips to Caleb’s knuckles, then relinquishes his hand. The slight, bashful smile on Caleb’s face is a good look, and he permits himself a few moments of enjoying it before he flops back down on the bed.

“I’m going to stay here,” he announces, tail waving happily somewhere above his calves, “and bask in having a back that doesn’t hurt, at least temporarily.”

Caleb smiles gently. “Nott and I have supplies to look for,” he murmurs, “but I am sure we will be able to check up on you before bed. Make sure you are mending, ja?”

“Danke,” Molly says emphatically. Caleb lets out the most gorgeous raspy snigger in response, and he sits up to fix him with an indignant look. “My pronunciation can’t be that bad?” he asks, brows creased in exaggerated hurt.

Caleb waves him off, his smile widening briefly. “Down, Mollymauk,” he sighs, “you are supposed to be resting. It was not the worst I have heard, at least.”

“So it’s better than someone’s,” Molly replies smugly, flopping back against the pillows. Caleb shakes his head at him, still smiling, then turns and heads out the door.

Molly burrows into the pillows, tail curling around one leg, and replays the sound of Caleb’s laughter in his mind. There’s sun coming in through the dirty windows, the pain in his back has eased, and he had made Caleb laugh.

He has it bad, he thinks, but he is too content to care.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos feed the fic machine.


End file.
